


The Heiress

by Marquise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Future Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-08
Updated: 2012-07-08
Packaged: 2017-11-09 10:48:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/454605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquise/pseuds/Marquise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In getting her revenge, she used all the skills he gave her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Heiress

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the lj got_exchange.

It’s a tableau that had appeared often enough in his dreams, though he would never voice it and the reality of it (if he focuses long enough) makes him shudder with pleasure. Sansa as Queen, her silver crown reflecting her auburn locks, her back straight and face porcelain and him at her side.

She’d been a queen long before he made her one. She fell easily into the role, her kind nature and steely disposition going a long way to win over the people and control her lords. She had a lady’s innate grace, that was clear, and even if he had not taken a hand in her development she would undoubtedly have been able to carve out a successful enough life at court. 

But he had seen all that she could be, all that he could make of her, all that he could gain with her. He had given her a player’s mind and watched her enemies fall about her, ruined before they ever suspected her. 

And at the end, when they had crowned her she had smiled at him, a barely perceptive smirk as she looked over her court, he had felt his heart clench.

She had named him her Hand, as was planned. And all his previous experience at court had not prepared him for the delicious deference that the lesser lords now gave to him, the way they averted their eyes when they passed them by. Sansa would often take his arm and walk with him after council sessions, and the other lords would look on with jealously as he whispered in her ear. 

He had not heard the name “Littlefinger” spoken since her crowning.

\----

At the end of this particular session—a packed one, with every member in attendance and more servants than usual—she excuses all of the other members with a slight tilt of her head and a charming smile. Sometimes, he has to admit to himself, he finds those smiles to have more than an edge to them. Years ago, when he had been able to see her switch and move between genuine Sansa and calculated Alayne, the distinction between the two girls had been as clear to him as night and day. With the revelation of her true identity it was as if Sansa had merely assumed all the qualities the bastard girl—it was now impossible to see the split, to see the façade, to know what was real.

Now alone, she favors him with a slight smirk that he tells himself is real. 

Sansa reaches for the pitcher and refills both of their goblets with Arbor Gold, her movements even. He watches her, unblinking, marveling at how _precise_ she is even with the simplest gestures. 

“Will you drink with me, Lord Baelish?” she asks, as if he has a choice.

He stares at the goblet with a wary eye, telling himself it’s the same one as before and that the wine came from the same pitcher as the one which had served all the council. He studies her carefully—the slight arch of her brow, her soft smile, the warm eyes that make all who meet her fall in love with her—all features that he had studied in depth throughout the years, all features that he should be able to read with ease. He sees nothing in her face that indicates he should have his guard up, yet when he takes the goblet from her hand he finds that his fingers tremble, just slightly. She watches him carefully, and somehow the calm in her face tells him that this is a significant event.

“You know I appreciate all of your efforts, don’t you Lord Baelish?” Her voice is light, mellifluous, yet the question makes him uneasy. The repeated use of his title doesn’t help much, as though she needs to place a distance between the two of them, first severing their close connection with words.

And it is a close connection, _is is_ , and he won’t let the way she is staring at him now dissuade him from that truth. 

“I had only small hand in it. The skill is all yours, my dear.” He is surprised, genuinely, that the words do not taste like a lie. He reaches out to touch her hand, hoping to ease some of the tension that he feels. 

_It’s true. I only gave her the tools. And look at how well she did!_ He grips her hand tightly, feeling his chest constrict a bit. She was—is—his greatest triumph.

Sansa sighs and looks away, and he’s shocked and moved to see tears in her eyes. She looks beautiful even—especially—in distress and he wishes to reach out and brush them away, but he stops himself. He watches her eyes sparkle, remembers the distance in her words, and wonders if this is Sansa or Alayne that he sees.

She pulls her hand away from his grip and takes a sip of her wine, careful. When she looks him in the eye he sees the steel even under the tears. “I think I’ve done well, don’t you?”

“You know I would never say otherwise. That’s why I’m at your side.”

She laughs and it’s like a dagger to his chest. “Is this what you planned when you killed my father?”

Her words hang in the cold room. She takes another sip, watching him over the goblet, her eyes unchanged.

Petyr’s heart pounds in his chest and a million thoughts cross his mind without him giving voice to any of them. Above all though, he wonders when she finally made the connection, how long she had hung onto this information, how many times she had let him whisper advice in her ear while wishing to slit his throat.

He can’t pinpoint a time when she must have learned. She has always been genteel, always porcelain and steel, always magnificent.

He smiles at her. It’s the only response he can manage.

“I gave you this power,” he says in response, though they both know that is only partially true. She places her goblet down and pulls his close to her, just slightly, just enough to make his breath catch.

“And now I have it. And what will the other lords, especially the Northern lords, say if they were to learn the truth of what you did?” She shakes her head. She seems genuinely saddened by this turn of events, though he should know better than to trust those impressions. “What will they think of me for having you on my council?”

He thinks that he knows the answer but presses on, reckless. “What do you intend?”

Sansa grips his goblet tight, her fingers growing even paler. “You understand that I cannot allow this.”

Petyr leans back in his chair, not really realizing how rigid he had become over the last few minutes. Sansa watches him out of the corner of her eye, and for what feels like an eternity nothing is said. 

It’s odd that, despite how tense his body is, he does not feel the fear or surprise that he would suspect. Rather, it is simply the strange sense of _excitement_ one gets from a long-anticipated event finally coming to pass, even if that anticipation was mostly under the surface, so to speak.

He almost has to admire her skill and her restraint. He’s not sure he could have waited all these years, in her position. He’s always thrived in chaos, but perhaps that was not the way to go, in the end. 

“What happens now?” he finally asks, his voice low but more than audible in the deathly silence of the room.

“I’ll give you dignity, even though I’m not sure you deserve it.” He goes to speak and she interrupts, her voice taking on an icy tone that it didn’t have before. “Mainly to make this easier for me. Less questions, as you know.”

“Of course.”

Sansa reaches into the hidden pocket of her gown and produces a dark vial. “The woman’s weapon,” she says, placing it on the table. “It acts slow. The effects will not be seen until the early morning hours. Plenty of distance between then and this meeting, but even so this was a rather populated session of the council, wasn’t it?”

He can only smirk in response. It’s perfect, the work of an expert hand. He wonders if he could do any better. “Very good.” He tries to make his tone sarcastic, but he’s not sure he can fully mask the sense of pride he feels at this moment. 

He’s also not sure if he imagines her slight smile at those words or it is genuine, but he choses to believe the latter.

She uncaps the vial and places two drops in the goblet before sliding it towards him. “Of course, there is always the alternative—I reveal all, and everything falls apart in the most public manner imaginable. But you wouldn’t see me destroyed, now would you?”

Her smile is warm, genuine—a Sansa smile that goes straight to his heart. It’s the same smile Cat favored him with years ago, only with an edge to it that feels far too familiar. Part of him resists this all, wishes to see her destroyed along with him. It’s the survivor in him that wishes to see this dragged out till the very end, that does not wish to give up.

That part of him is smaller than he would have ever imagined. If he were to do that all of their work will come crashing down on them, all of the skill that he-- _he_ \--brought out in her would be wasted. 

The world would lose its two greatest players in one smooth stroke. And in losing her? It would be a crime to lose such talent. 

And, truly, looking in her eyes he knows he was doomed from the beginning. Knows that this is the path that was destined for him, knows that there is no sense in fighting this.

And he could never deny her anything, could he?

Petyr looks down into the goblet, his hand shaking a bit, trying to keep his face a mask that will mirror hers. “I would never expect anything less from you, sweetling.”

She laughs, laughs while crying, and suddenly kisses his brow and that’s almost enough to make him drink then and there. Her lips are soft, her hair fragrant, and she’s so _good_. She’s everything he ever wanted her to be, and he pushes aside the feelings of pity that he feels in her every movement. 

“I’m very sorry it had to come to this,” she says and he _knows_ that she’s telling the truth, despite the unchanged nature of her face.

He’s still oddly calm. Perhaps it’s the shock or perhaps there is nothing more to say. Maybe it’s simply how _impressed_ he is by it all—by her restraint, by her discretion, by how skillful she is, by everything that he drew out of her and nurtured over the course of all these years.

If he’s going to have to die, he is glad that it is by such a skilled hand. 

He drinks. There is simply nothing else to do; he knows enough of the game to know that he can’t fight this, not her. She watches him, unblinking, and he thinks she would have kissed him then were it not for the poison on his lips.

The idea crosses his mind of kissing her anyway, of how sweet it would be to turn this all on her, to die with her, like a figure in a song. It’s all so absurd and juvenile, and really they are both past that. He does nothing but set the goblet down. He doesn’t feel anything, nothing but this strange sense of pride. She’s Ned Stark’s daughter, she did this to avenge her father, yet she did it using the skills _he_ taught her. He.

Ned Stark would never approve. He wants to twist the knife and tell her this but can’t bring himself to hurt her, even in these circumstances. 

_You’re mine above anything else._

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, and he wonders how much of that is the truth. She presses his hand, gentler than before, gathers her skirts, and takes her leave. She doesn’t look back though he can picture her face, her trail of tears making her look more vulnerable that she really is.

He settles back in the chair and watches her go and marvels at her, at how easily he fell for her, at her level of control and her ruthlessness. 

None of this should come as a surprise, though. After all, she is his greatest creation.


End file.
